


the half doesn't negate the brother

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Pre-Canon, lil bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:06:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: (AKA I can't think of a better fic title)Jon learned early on in his life what bastard meant. He thought he was five years of age the first time he’d been told he was one. He couldn’t remember who it had been who called him that, but he remembered the heat and anger he’d felt, even though he didn’t actually know what it had meant. He just knew it was meant to hurt and hurt it did.(photo prompt #3--a picture of Catelyn)





	the half doesn't negate the brother

Jon learned early on in his life what _bastard_ meant. He thought he was five years of age the first time he’d been told he was one. He couldn’t remember who it had been who called him that, but he remembered the heat and anger he’d felt, even though he didn’t actually know what it had meant. He just knew it was meant to hurt and hurt it did.

He thought it might’ve been Jory who explained it to him, with Robb at his side. The older man had been angry, wanting to know where they’d heard that word. It had made Jon feel better, though there was something about how Jory addressed him and not Robb that made him realize just how different he was from his brother Robb. His _half_ -brother Robb.

Jon had known already that he was a bastard—he knew his mother was someone other than Catelyn Stark, knew that Robb and the others weren’t his full siblings. He didn’t remember learning that; he just remembered always knowing it. He had just never heard the term _bastard_ before, and directed at him with that cold edge at that. Some part of him wondered if his lord father had tried to shelter him from that, even though his surname was still Snow. 

* * *

 

That had been the first time, but it most certainly wasn’t the last. As he got older, he heard it more often, though it typically wasn’t accompanied with that cold edge he’d heard it said with the first time. Usually it was Robb, or Theon once he came to Winterfell, calling him a bastard when they play fought, the way they would call each other names, though Jon was the only one who was called _bastard_. It never struck him quite the same when they said it—he knew it was said in jest, and he didn’t feel that pang he had the first time when they said it. He thought maybe if they called him it often enough he might learn to ignore it when he was called it by others. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Jon tried to let it all wash off him— _bastard, half-brother, Snow, not a Stark_. He tried not to be jealous every time there was a new baby Stark. He tried not to be afraid every time Robb got a new sibling. He thought Robb wouldn’t have time for him anymore, but he hated himself for that fear with every babe. He knew he should have more confidence in Robb, but he was relieved all the same at the fact that Catelyn had produced two daughters and not sons. Daughters wouldn’t steal Robb away from him and leave him with nothing.

By the time he was nine years of age, he thought he’d gotten quite good at hiding his emotions: his hurt, his fear, his jealousy. He hadn’t quite mastered his anger, and Maester Luwin said that must come from his mother’s side, as the Starks were stoic people. Jon found the idea both comforting and distressing. He took solace in the idea that he shared something with his mother—the woman he knew absolutely nothing about, but the idea pained him as well. He didn’t much enjoy being reminded he was something other than Stark, that he had different blood in his veins than Robb and the rest of the Starks.

His temper was something he was often told to control though. He would get in fights occasionally, small scuffles really, with other boys his age around Winterfell. Every time he came into the great hall or his lord father’s solar with a bloodied lip or a black eye Ned would sigh and Jon knew he’d let him down.

He never tried to explain himself. He knew it wouldn’t change the fact that he fought. Ned wouldn’t accept any excuses, no matter how good they might’ve been. Every time Ned just sighed, rubbed his face, and told Jon he would no doubt see enough fighting when he was older. Every time Jon apologized, promised he would try to solve his disagreements with words instead of fists, the way a lord would. That’s what both Ned and Maester Luwin advised him every time, and Jon knew better to point out that he would never be a lord, so there was no point in learning how to solve disagreements the way a lord would. Even at nine, he knew that line of argument wouldn’t go over with either of them though, so he never said anything other than _yes, ser_ or _yes, Maester._

* * *

 

Jon, Robb, and Theon were sparring in the yard, trying to avoid the lessons they should’ve been at.

He was nearly ten years of age then, and had grown to be a halfway decent fighter by Ser Rodrik’s comments. He thought he was the best of the three of them—Theon was by far better with a bow, and Robb could hit harder than Jon could, but Jon was faster, which meant he rarely gave Robb a chance to actually land a blow.

Jon thought that, by rights, he should be able to claim the best of heroes when they played lord of the keep, as he was the best fighter, even if he was natural born. Usually he’d claim Aemon the Dragon Knight, one of his favorites from the age of heroes, but once, just once, he wanted to be Lord of Winterfell, the way Robb always was.

“I’m Ser Florian the Fool!” Robb yelled, swinging the wooden sword.

“Well, then I’m Lord of Winterfell,” Jon responded, thinking that if Robb claimed someone else, he could have Winterfell. It wasn’t as though he was taking it from Robb that way.

“You can’t be. You’re bastard-born,” Robb replied. Jon tried to push down that anger and the flush of embarrassment that rose with it.

“Fine. Then I’m Symeon Star-Eyes.” Jon’s voice didn’t come across as flippant and light as he’d hoped it would.

“ _I’ll_ be Lord of Winterfell then,” Theon called proudly and Jon felt his sword arm drop until the wood hit the ground.

“You can’t be. You’re a Greyjoy. You can be Lord of Pyke,” Jon told him, hoping to sound the same as Robb had telling him he couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell.

“I’ve more of right than you have. Your lord father is like to marry me to Sansa when we’re both of age, and if something happens to Robb or baby Bran, I would be Lord.”

That cut through Jon more than Robb’s comment did. He always thought Theon was like him—an outsider, something other than a Stark, with no right to inherit. He’d never considered that Ned might make Theon a part of the family in a way he could never with Jon. Jon couldn’t become part of the family through marriage. He would always be half in, half out, never anything more than half.

“Father would never marry Sansa to you,” Robb laughed and something in Jon loosened.

“What do you know? He might. It would be a good match, combining our Houses.”

“Father still wouldn’t marry her to _you_.”

“Robb’s the only one who can be Lord of Winterfell,” Jon interjected, wanting to end this so they could continue sparring. He thought he saw a flash of red near the grey walls of the keep, which meant Maester Luwin probably sent little Sansa out looking for them. They didn’t have much time before they would be forced into their studies.

“You’re just jealous because I could be Lord of Winterfell when you could never be lord of anything. Because you’re a bastard. I may never be a Stark, but at least I’m a Greyjoy,” Theon said. It had been nearly five years since the first time Jon had been called a bastard, but this one nearly hurt more than the first time had.

Jon closed his eyes, trying to control his anger the way Luwin and Ned had taught him, but it wasn’t working. Jon was swinging before he opened his eyes again.

He wasn’t sparring now. He was swinging blindly, with rage, hoping to hurt Theon with the wooden sword the way he had hurt him with his words.

Jon couldn’t see anything, though he heard what could’ve been a shriek. He was lost in rage.

He could feel someone’s hands pulling at him, but they weren’t able to lift him off of Theon’s cowering form. He could hear other people shouting too, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to make sure Theon understood the point he was trying to make.

“Jon!” The voice cut through to him like a whip and he backed off instantly.

Catelyn was striding across the yard, face stern as ever. He felt a sinking in his stomach. She hauled him up by his arm, turning him towards the keep and away from Theon.

“Go to your chambers,” she told him. Jon twisted away from her angrily, stomping back into the keep.

Jon stalked the length of his chambers, wishing he had something to do with his hands. He had too much energy. He needed to hit something.

He knew Catelyn would be in to see him shortly, as Ned was off with Jory and Rodrik taking care of some lordly business or another. Nothing he’d ever need to understand.

He half hoped Catelyn would let it alone until Ned was back though—he was due by evening fall. He would much rather deal with Ned’s disappointment than Catelyn’s anger.

Theon had been kind enough to explain to him why Catelyn appeared to dislike him so. He was the honorable Eddard Stark’s one flaw. He was the proof that Ned wasn’t quite as honorable as everyone had thought. He was the reason, Theon claimed, that Catelyn occasionally seemed to be angry with Ned. It was all his fault.

Jon should’ve whacked Theon that time too.

* * *

Catelyn set down her hoop when she heard the pitter-patter of young feet down the corridor. She had the intent to scold Arya for running in the corridors again, and was shocked when she was met with the image of herself as a young girl.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” Her oldest daughter wouldn’t be running unless something was wrong, she knew.

“The boys—they’re fighting in the yard,” she panted. Catelyn sighed.

“They’re supposed to be with Maester Luwin right now.” She stood, intending to go herd them back indoors, but Sansa looked far too worried for the boys just to be hiding from the Maester.

“Mum, they’re actually _fighting._ I think Jon’s hurting Theon.”

“What? Why would Jon hurt Theon?” Catelyn murmured to herself, sweeping down to pick up her daughter before striding for the door.

“Theon called Jon something—a… bas…bastard and said he’d never be a lord. Is that true, Mum? Will Jon never be a lord?” Catelyn opened her mouth but her daughter was staring at her with such wide blue eyes that the words died on her tongue.

“Only the gods know our fates,” she said instead, setting the girl down. She was not yet six years of age. She needn’t worry herself with Jon Snow’s future.

“What’s a bastard, Mum?” Catelyn sighed again.

“Someone who was born to unmarried parents.” She tried to keep the strain out of her voice. Sansa looked confused and Catelyn kneeled down. “It means Father…loved…another woman besides me. Remember how Jon is your half-brother?” Sansa nodded. “That’s what it means.”

“Oh.”

“Run off to the kitchens. I heard Cook was making lemon cakes for dessert. Might be she’ll give you one early if you ask nicely.” Catelyn smiled at the way her daughter’s eyes lit up before racing down the corridor again.

* * *

Jon was shocked when he heard a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, backing away from it and steeling himself. Catelyn came in, looking as she had in the yard. He stared gloomily at the floor, waiting for her to start.

“Whenever Robb gets into a scrape he always has a string of excuses,” she said softly and Jon dared to glance up. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.” Jon glanced at her for a second before looking back at the floor.

“We were playing lord of the keep. I wanted to be Lord of Winterfell, but Robb said I couldn’t because I’m…base born. Theon said he was going to be Lord of Winterfell, and I said he couldn’t because he’s a Greyjoy. He said he could, if my lord father married him to Sansa. Then he…” Jon trailed off. He didn’t want to say _bastard_ in front of Catelyn, to remind her of what he was.

“Called you a bastard. I know, Sansa told me.” Jon flushed at Sansa—sweet, innocent, young little Sansa—hearing what Theon had said and repeating it all back to Catelyn.

“Are you going to tell Father?” he asked, scuffing his boot against the stone floor. He heard her sigh, but this one sounded different.

“No…no, I don’t suppose that I will. There’s been no permanent damage done. Theon’s ego might be wounded, but he’s a little cocky. Getting beat by a lad two years younger than him might have done him some good.” Jon glanced up at her again, surprised. He expected harshness from her. He had expected fury. Not this almost understanding. “If Ned asks at supper tonight, I’ll tell him you were defending Sansa’s honor.” Jon’s lips twitched at that, and he thought Catelyn’s might have as well.

“No more fighting, though, do you hear me?” The sternness was back in her voice and Jon bowed his head again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. Go clean yourself up for your lessons.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

 

Jon thought that that moment of understanding might have shifted his relationship with Catelyn, but nothing about it changed. She was still the distant woman he was familiar with.

What did change, though, was his relationship with Sansa. They hadn’t really been close at any point, but she would sometimes ask him to play dolls with her. After his fight with Theon though, she stopped asking. He thought it was because she learned what _bastard_ meant.

She got a little older and he wondered if it had more to do with her being a girl than his being baseborn. She didn’t play with Robb often either, and she never asked Theon to play dolls with her, so he thought it might have been that she was just not interested in playing with him because he was a boy.

That was until Arya got a little older and followed him and Robb everywhere. She wanted to spar and fight and ride with them, all things Sansa never asked to join in on. He wondered if maybe Sansa was just taking in her lady mother’s footsteps and keeping her distance from the bastard of Winterfell. 

* * *

 

**SIX YEARS LATER**

Jon was all packed to leave for the Night’s Watch, though he wasn’t bringing much. He suspected his packing went much more quickly than either of the girls’ packing for King’s Landing. He knew Arya would have been faster than him, if Septa Mordane hadn’t made her repack and fold everything properly after she’d thrown everything in together the first time around.

Jon had finished packing earlier than he intended, so he went to say his goodbyes—first to Arya, who was still sulking about being made to repack, then to Bran’s still unconscious form. He left Bran’s chambers flushed and angry. He _knew_ Catelyn was in a place of pain, but her words still hurt. Being called a bastard still hurt.

He was heading down to the yard, still fuming a bit, looking to say goodbye to Robb. He was so unforced that he ran into someone on the stairs down from Bran’s chambers.

“Pardon,” he mumbled, moving to the side and not raising his eyes.

“Jon, I’ve been looking for you.” He looked quickly, realizing Sansa was the one he ran into. He had been hoping to avoid her. He didn’t to force either of them to endure an awkward goodbye.

“Sansa,” he said, taking a step back.

“You’re leaving for the Wall today? To join the Night’s Watch?”

“Yeah, I am.” She nodded, looking almost pleased. _Same as her lady mother_ , he thought bitterly.

“I have something for you.” She motioned for him to follow her back up the stairs and towards her chambers. He’d never been in them before. When he used to play dolls with her she was still in the nursery. He was surprised to see that they weren’t all that different from Arya’s. He didn’t know what he expected—it was still a stone chamber in Winterfell, same as his.

“I’ve read about the Night’s Watch,” she was saying, rummaging in one of her many chests. “It seems like a noble order. I’ve read that the men were called Black Knights of the wall,” she said and Jon couldn’t believe that Sansa had looked into the order he was joining. “I’m sure they give you black clothes at the Wall, once you’ve sworn the oath, but…” Sansa rose, finally, pulling a black bundle from her chest. “I thought you’d like to have something of Winterfell with you, so far away.” She unfurled the bundle to reveal a black woolen cloak with black fur. “It’s not my best…I’ve never made anything but dresses before.”

“Thank you, Sansa. I’m sure it’ll keep me warm at the Wall.” Sansa smiled as he settled the fabric around his shoulders and Jon couldn’t help the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Will they let you travel south, as Uncle Benjen does, for my wedding?” she asked, turning again to close the chest, breaking the moment.

“I’m sure they will, if I’m not ranging beyond the Wall.”

“Right, of course. Well, goodbye, Jon.”

“Goodbye, Sansa.” He bowed his head slightly and started to back out of the room, but Sansa approaching stopped him.

“You might be my half-brother, but you’re still my brother,” she muttered before hugging him.

Jon realized with a pang it wasn’t just going to be Arya and his brothers he would miss at the Wall. He would miss Sansa as well.


End file.
